Safety VII
by Jadzia
Summary: Sequel to Safety VI


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SAFETY VII 

by Jadzia 

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He tries not to sleep. 

I can tell. 

His eyes are bloodshot, and he slowly unfocuses as he looks at something far away, so far away I can't see it. Then the green slowly disappears as the lids close slowly, the lashes almost touching his cheeks ... and there's peace for a moment. His head tilts back a fraction, he cuddles deeper into his jacket, and every time I wish that it will last this time – that he allows himself to rest, to be quiet and peaceful. 

Just for a little while. 

Good thing the road is straight, otherwise we'd be curled around a tree or something by now, because I just can't stop looking at him. It's impossible, he looks so ... adorable. 

Oh shit, I'll laugh out loud in a minute and wake him. 

Alex Adorable Krycek. 

In a bad novel, I'd say now, "If someone told me five days ago that I'd find Fucking Ratbastard Krycek adorable, I would've kicked their ass." Or something. 

Well, life is a bad novel. 

He'll do it again in a few seconds – yep, I knew it. He stirs a little and his eyelids flutter – and then ... zoom, and his head surges forward, his eyes fly open, wide, shocked, alarmed. He rubs his face and rakes his hands through his hair. Blinks at me. 

"Don't you have to watch the road?" 

"I do." 

I throw him another quick glance. 

His eyes ... pain, and exhaustion – and cold. 

I have to look at him now, because there's no light – just cold. 

Hardness. 

Hopelessness. 

...cruelty. 

Look at the road, Mulder. 

He killed. 

People. 

Cold-blooded. 

My father. 

So many people. 

Dead. 

He was their death. 

Looked at them with cold lifeless eyes as they begged for their lives. 

Pulled the trigger. 

Smiled. 

"Don't like what you see?" 

That smile. 

Oh God. 

A killer. 

He lay in my arms, feeling wonderfully soft and hurt and warm, and I took care of him like a lovesick teenager. 

A killer. 

I'm fucking nuts. 

"Thought so." 

I look at him, irritated. "What?" 

He closes his eyes again, shutting me out. 

I hate him. 

"You hate me. You can't ever forget. What I've done, who I've been. I waited for you to understand. Didn't want to be asleep when you kicked me out." 

Can't speak. 

Can't think. 

Because he looks at me just a moment and his eyes – his eyes have changed. 

Hurt. 

Pain. 

So much hurt and pain wrapped in green that I can't look, can't speak, have to grip the wheel, white knuckles, think, calm down, think, deep breath, okay. 

Okay. 

Hurt. 

Every twinge of hurt he ever inflicted must have come back upon him at least tenfold. 

And I want to hold him again and I would, but I have to drive, good, grip the wheel, he's hurting, terribly, badly hurting, but don't forget. 

Don't forget. 

He's a killer. 

Deserves the pain and more than that because he has killed. 

But he's suffering. 

He's suffering so bad I want to soothe him and he's suffering not enough so I want to beat him up to make it worse. 

I don't want to be here. I want to be anywhere but here, I want to be in the place where I left my beliefs when I went to find him. 

H want to be who I was before all that. 

Because then I knew he was a killer. 

A betrayer. 

Someone I hated. 

But here – he hurts. He hurts and I want to make it better, even if it means he'll become again what he was before. 

He's scared. 

Practically waiting for me to jump at him – he's so bone-tired I could kill him with one hand right now. Easily. He can hardly move. 

He's hurt and scared. 

A killer. 

Cold-blooded. 

And I can't forget. 

But right now, he's suffering. 

And suddenly I realize I just want to see his eyes close again, want to see him quiet and sane and peaceful, want to believe there is something inside of him. 

Light. 

Maybe someday I'll see. 

Maybe. 

If there is something. 

Close your eyes. 

Come to rest. 

Trust me. 

I reach out and turn the lever to tilt his seat back and smile at his surprised yelp – and smile again when he looks at me and gapes. 

"Sleep." 

************** THE END ************** 


End file.
